war.”
Mama ignored this last statement, which perhaps was just as well. “But only think, Eliza—a cramped little house, and no maid. How slovenly, how chaotic, it must be.”
“Perhaps Lizzie makes up for her slovenliness with her industriousness. I expect Jeb believes there’s more virtue to a woman than keeping a neat house.”
“Indeed, there is not!”
Mama’s fervency had an unfortunate effect: my father and I looked at each other and began to laugh, which neither of us had done in a long time. It was good to see that I still knew how.
12
ON TUESDAY, APRIL 19, 1775, WE WOKE to cries in the street that the British army was coming. There was pandemonium without as a crowd of men raced to the bridge across the Charles, to remove its planks.
We remained inside, breathless with anticipation, until that afternoon, when Papa made for Wood Street, Mama shouting after him not to go. There, he learned that the British had replaced the planks on the bridge and crossed over. They were now north of us, where General Heath’s men had confronted Rebel militia, and several men had been killed, among them one we knew: John Hicks, a local tradesman.
My father did not return to the house immediately, but first went round to the stables. Papa owned several muskets and must have decided that the threat of his own slaves turning against us was less great than the British menace, for he armed our old coachman and our young stableboy Juno. Three other young Negro men Papa welcomed into our home.
“Cassie! Make up the beds!” he called. Cassie approached Papa, who stood in the hallway by the kitchen.
“Sir,” said Cassie. “What beds do I make, sir? We have only Master Jeb’s and dose of de girls.”
I knew Cassie’s concern: Was my father actually requesting that she make up the family beds for our slaves?
“Yes,” he replied. “We have ’em, let’s use ’em! By God, I’ll not stand on ceremony now.”
Slaves in the family beds! I never imagined I would see such a thing. Cassie made up the beds with the family’s fine linens and bolsters. Of course, Cassie bathed the boys first and gave them clean nightshirts to wear—she was having none of that stable filth in the house. I happened to enter the kitchen at an inopportune moment and caught a glimpse of two slick, black bodies, heads bent down, knees up, in two tin tubs, like steaming puddings.
That night, my mother insisted that I sleep in their chamber. Though I could not step abroad without quaking, I felt no fear of our stableboys.
“I am hardly worth hanging for, Mama,” I sighed, staring with dismay at the narrow sliver of bed next to Mama.
But Mama, who was sitting up with her nightcap on, was not to be gainsaid. “Some of our citizens have lost all compunction about committing hanging offenses,” she fretted.
“It’s well they’re not citizens, then.”
“Shhh! I sleep!” Papa complained.
I slept restlessly for several hours until Mama sat bolt upright, eager to make certain that the tall chest we had shoved against the chamber door had not budged.
We survived the night unmolested, but the news that reached us in the morning unsettled us all. Men were fighting and dying in Lexington. We knew not how many Rebels had been killed but heard that eighty regulars had perished.
At last, the worst had happened: War had come. On April 20, thousands of men descended upon Cambridge to camp on the Common. From them, my father learned that Rebels had taken possession of Roxbury. Men we knew had died. But I don’t think we truly believed we were at war until the following day, when the wounded began arriving in wagons, and neighbors began to fashion makeshift hospitals in their homes.
Lizzie wrote to us at once, begging that we do the same, but Mama would not hear of it.
“And invite smallpox and all manner of disease within? Certainly not.”
My heart went out to our brave militia, and my impulse was to help them. Yet, unlike Lizzie, I should
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